Landreths in Cornwall
by Blossomlily
Summary: A mist of curiosity, suspiscion and gossip has surrounded the aged and secretive old man living in the shabbiest cottage in the village of Polpenny with his orphaned grandson, Jon. When a strange visitor comes looking for Jon, old Ivor Landreth's mysterio


In Cornwall

The Landreths

In the lush green countryside of the oldest corner of Britain, adorned with long, waving grasses and dotted with palm trees, was situated a little whitewashed cottage with a simple thatched roof in a tiny fishing village on the banks of the river Tamar. In it lived a small boy around the age of eleven with his only family, an elderly grandfather, a typical Cornishman by the name of Ivor Landreth.

Jon was an orphan and he had lived his entire life in that village with his solitary company, his grandfather. The villagers often talked among themselves in hushed voices as to how the old man could be trusted to bring up a boy so young, and who the poor thing had to talk to for Ivor Landreth was known to be moody and eccentric. The two got on well, though, and Jon grew up as a typical village boy, entertaining himself solely by climbing trees, digging up the garden, swimming in the river, rigging up fishing rods and attempting to get a decent catch, exploring the cliffs, rocks and occasional caves on the craggy coast, always keeping clear of the roaring sea as his grandfather warned him to from time to time.

His grandfather, known to the villagers simply as Old Ivor, usually lay in bed, reading the local paper from cover to cover or staring moodily out of his grimy window, watching his neighbours' comings and goings, much to their discomfort. He rarely came out into the sunlight. They all knew that he had a considerable sum of money stashed away, and this subject was a popular topic of gossip as to how he had acquired it. The elderly Mrs. Carstairs, who went in everyday to cook and clean for Ivor and Jon, would be full of stories for her curious neighbours.

"Let me tell you 'ere, Eloise, the old feller ain't nothin' hard-up as he makes out to be from the state of his cottage. I went in to clean last week, I did, and found him kneelin' on the floor feelin' around the floorboards, diggin' up money! Lord, I've never seen tha' much cash in my life, never! The feller's cheatin' on his grandson, that's what he's doin'! And the look he gave me when he saw me watchin'! Lord, I'll never forget tha' easily…"

She shuddered dramatically.

"Jon!"

A gruff voice issued suddenly from inside the cottage, breaking the peaceful silence that had settled around the red-haired boy sprawled on the grass outside, bathed in the pleasant sunlight.

Jon scrambled to his feet. It was his grandfather's voice, sounding gruff and hoarse due to lack of use. He pushed open the rickety wooden door and stepped inside, swiftly heading into the old man's dimly lit bedroom through the modest living room scattered with a few chairs.

Ivor's pale, lined face seemed rather agitated, and Jon soon found the cause for it: an equally agitated brown owl was perched on the ledge outside the window and was tapping frantically on the dusty glass. Jon saw that it had an envelope tied to its leg. He reached out to open the window, thinking that it could be in hurt or in trouble, but his grandfather slapped his hand away.

"Don't open it, Jon!" he barked, startling Jon, for he rarely showed any harsh emotion towards him. "Listen! There's someone at the door."

And so there was. There was a polite, smart rap on the wooden door, which echoed through the entire cottage.

"Don't open it," rasped Ivor again, as Jon made a move towards the door. "Wait!"

The rapping continued.

"Grandpa, it's just Mrs. Carstairs," Jon told him, slightly alarmed, for Ivor was now scrambling out of bed, groping beneath it for his walking stick. Once he'd found it, he brandished it dangerously close to Jon's head before he could steady himself and bring it to a rest on the wooden floor.

"Grandpa, please!" Jon's voice sounded almost fearful now, Never before had he seen the old man this active; his actions were scaring Jon, who loved him deeply. He clutched his grandfather's shoulders in an attempt to steady him as he hobbled out of the room, his light blue eyes glinting madly, his jowls trembling with an emotion Jon could not decipher – was it fury? Fear? Sorrow? All the while, Ivor muttered frantically under his breath, but half of the words were drowned in the deep, hoarse breaths he was taking.

Upon reaching the door to the cottage, he gripped the walking stick in his left hand hard, put forth a shriveled, weather-beaten right hand and flung it open, blinking in the bright sunlight emanating into the cottage. For a moment, Jon could see nothing but the outline of a tall, imposing figure standing on their doorstep; and then, the next instant, a very old, very pleasant and intelligent-looking man with silver hair and beard stepped inside the cottage, closing the squeaky wooden door behind him.

Ivor backed away slowly, his eyes wide and fearful, until he reached the whitewashed wall of the small living room. He leaned against it, tapping his stick in a frenzied way, as though warning the stranger not to come any closer. Jon clutched his shoulders even more tightly and spoke to the robed newcomer in a terrified voice:

"Who – who are you?"

The stranger merely smiled genially at the two of them.

"Please do not panic on my account," he said in a voice that seemed to warm every part of Jon. "I'm a well-wisher, Mr. Ivor Landreth, Jonathan."

He inclined his magnificent head at Jon, and he found himself relaxing at the stranger's words. As the stranger surveyed him through half-moon spectacles, Jon noticed that he was most unusually dressed in rich, chocolate brown robes embroidered with dark red wool, gems of the same color glittering at places.

"I'm Albus Dumbledore, headmaster of –"

"I know who you are!" rasped Ivor suddenly, as though he had just found his voice. "I know…Old Ivor knows…"

The man named Dumbledore bowed his head respectfully.

"I expect you do. He was a good man – Ian Landreth."

Jon looked from one to the other, feeling rather confused. His grandfather seemed to know this visitor. Then why had he seemed afraid at first? And who was Ian Landreth? Jon did not know any of his family apart from his grandfather, because his parents, Roger and Ethel, had been killed in a boat accident shortly after he, Jon, had turned one.

"Old Ivor remembers," said his grandfather, his nose twitching slightly as it did when he was tensed. "Oh, yes. He may be moody and senile, but Old Ivor hasn't forgotten, headmaster…"

And with those cryptic words, Jon's grandfather pulled away from him and stomped into his bedroom, signaling to the two of them to follow him inside.

The bird was still tapping vigorously on the window. Before Ivor could say or do anything, Dumbledore swiftly pulled the window open. The bird hopped onto his outstretched hand, hooting. He untied the envelope on its foot and set it free. To Jon's surprise, Dumbledore handed the envelope to him and said,

"I would like you to read the letter later, Jonathan. We must talk first. That is, if your grandfather…"

He glanced at Ivor who had sat down on the edge of the frayed mattress of his bed. Ivor took a deep breath, his bright blue eyes glistening with emotion.

"Ian was a – a wonderful brother," he said, speaking to Dumbledore, avoiding Jon's perplexed gaze. "He was the first friend I ever had. Did you know he did not change his attitude towards me even after you took him away and he could come only twice a year? Then you put him in a war. And what happened to him? Death, that's what. He fell to bits and pieces."

Ivor covered his wrinkled face with his hands, and his whole body trembled and shook with sobs that resembled a child's. Dumbledore placed a comforting hand on his shaking shoulder.

"It is difficult… losing one's twin brother," he said gently.

"Twin!" exclaimed Ivor. "He wasn't my twin! He was a part of me. I lost him, and I lost me! You took him away to teach the blasted things you want to teach my grandson. I won't allow you, I say. I respect you, dash it! And your powers! But –"

His voice broke as he blurted out the last few lines, and lowered to a softer tone.

"But I can't understand why you keep coming back to me and my family. You see, it's – it's never been the same after Ian … went. The Lord shut out the only door in my life. I've been like this ever since, trying to let go of the past, trying to teach Jon to respect life as it is and not to run after money and – and unwanted powers."

He broke off with a mighty sob and took in a few deep breaths.

"I express my deepest sorrows, Mr. Landreth," said Dumbledore in a gentle voice, "and I am flattered to hear that I have earned your respect. Needless to say, I, too, respect your feelings and the wish you proclaim to shield your grandson from our world's deep powers. But I am also of the opinion that you should give your grandson a chance to decide for himself."

Ivor looked up at him.

"It's our destinies that carve out our paths for us, Mr. Landreth. We cannot hide the powers we possess. We, in the end, must decide the path we should take," continued Dumbledore. "Ian chose what path he wanted, Mr. Landreth. Ian fought like a lion in the terrible war. He was a great, brave man."

Ivor opened his mouth and closed it again. Two great tears rolled down his thin cheeks, and he looked at Dumbledore pleadingly, as though silently begging him to not put him in this tight situation.

But Dumbledore leaned close to him and spoke again.

"_Think of what Ian would do, Mr. Landreth."_

Ivor stared, wide-eyed, at Dumbledore's grave face and then at Jon's confused expression, shock spreading over him, seemingly paralyzing him.

"T-Take him," he said, his voice cracking again. "Tell him everything. Ian loved it there – I know he did, though he wouldn't tell me much about it, thinking I'd feel bad. And I know that he would want to give Jon a chance as well. I am a fool to stop you. P-Please tell Jon everything and let him choose."

He hid his face again as though he could not bear to think or speak anymore, letting his grief wash over him.

"Jonathan," said Dumbledore, rising, "come into the next room. I have a lot to tell you."

Half an hour later, the elderly Mr. Landreth hobbled into the living room to join his grandson and his headmaster. Now, he had a broad grin on his withered face, and his blue eyes were crinkled, glistening with pride and joy. He went in, expecting to see his grandson's youthful countenance shining with awe and excitement.

What Ivor got, however, was a tortured expression on Jon's face, as though he would give anything to not be in this situation.

"Mr. Landreth," said Dumbledore, looking up at Ivor as he came inside the room, "Jonathan tells me that he does not wish to leave you all alone in this cottage simply to attend a magic school. He loves you too much to and wishes to stay. He feels it might be shameful betrayal to do otherwise."

Ivor froze, and stared at the boy, who refused to meet his eyes, gazing defiantly at the wooden floor. A second later, Ivor stumbled towards him so fast that Jon leapt up from his chair, shocked, and he hugged his grandson tightly, his eyes shut tight with emotion.

"You know what? Ian said the exact same thing," whispered Ivor hoarsely. "He – he didn't want to leave me, too, because we were both orphans already, and we lived in an orphanage, where I was completely dependent on him. I couldn't do anything without Ian. He didn't wan to leave me on my own. It was hard…"

"What did you tell him?" asked Jon, his voice muffled as he had his face buried in Ivor's shoulder.

"I told him not to be a fool," replied Ivor, pulling away from Jon and holding him at arm's length. "I told him to take his head out of the clouds and think. I told him that he was being offered the opportunity of a lifetime on a silver platter on his very doorstep and if he turned it down, he was touched in the head, his marbles had abandoned him and if he persisted that way, the nearest asylums would be offering him a free place. I guess I was harsh."

He gave a short laugh. "Ian listened to me, though. And I hope you will, too, lad. The world is huge; there is no time or place for sloppiness. You've got to stay in line, son, or you'll simply be pushed down and stomped over. Now, promise me you'll do what your heart tells you. Promise me that you will listen to what this gentleman has to say with a clear head and do what's good for you. Promise me that you i will /i go to the school and i do well. /i "

Jon bit his lip and nodded. Ivor patted him proudly on the head.

"Now, there's a good boy. Is there anything else I should do, headmaster?"

Dumbledore smiled. "Mr. Landreth, you've handled it beautifully. Now I only ask that you go back to bed and rest your tired legs. But, before you retire, a word of caution, Mr. Landreth and Jonathan. The part of England you live in is more dangerous for a person belonging to the wizarding world than any. We have been fortunate in that Jonathan, here, does not have frequent bursts of emotion, which would, of course, kindle the magic in him to action. I urge you to be as discreet as possible and ask you to tell everyone, for now, that you plan to send Jonathan to a boarding school in any place as far away from here as possible."

"Yes, of course, we will do that," said Ivor, placing his arm protectively around Jon's shoulders. "And, er, what about books and uniforms and such?"

"I will send a staff member of mine to look after that. And now, sirs, I must be off!"

He raised his hand in a parting wave, and with a swish of his rich brown cloak, he opened the door and swiftly disappeared through the doorway.

The two stood staring at the doorway for a long moment, until old Mrs. Carstairs appeared so suddenly, her large frame silhouetted frighteningly against the scorching sunlight that both Ivor and Jon jumped.

"Mr. Landreth?" she said doubtfully. "Er – I noticed a gentleman visitin' just now, sir, and came to see if you were all right…"

"Oh?" said Ivor, startled. "Oh, yes, I'm perfectly fine, thanks."

"Oh, all right, sir," the woman said, but still lingered around thoughtfully. "Was that the doctor, sir?"

"Doctor?" said Ivor, puzzled for a moment. But when Jon nudged him a little with his elbow, he seemed to get over his initial confusion and said, "Yes, yes. He was the doctor. A chap from London. He – I had him here to treat my arthritis… my poor limbs … "

"Right, sir. You look after yourself and I'll be gettin' home." And she disappeared from the doorway, leaving the old man and his grandson to their thoughts about the future.

In the cheerful little ivy-covered house, a few metres away from old Ivor's cottage, Eloise Roscoe was fast asleep, in the middle of her customary afternoon nap. But she was jerked awake by a series of frenzied knocks on her front door. Thoroughly annoyed, she went down to see who the tiresome visitor was, disturbing her in the middle of her well-deserved rest after energetically cleaning the cottage all morning.

"Hilda!" she exclaimed, surprised at seeing Hilda Carstairs, her closest friend in Cornwall.

"Yes, yes, it's me," said her aged friend, her eyes shining and her face feverish with excitement, as though she was bursting to tell Eloise something. "Listen 'ere, Eloise. I've just seen the impossible. Old Ivor had a visitor!"

"Old Mr. Landreth?" said Eloise incredulously, all annoyance forgotten. "Why, he's not had one for the past forty years! You must come inside, dear Hilda, and tell me everything."

Inside the living room, Eloise was slightly disappointed to hear that Hilda hadn't heard everything that had been said and done in the cottage, but was still intrigued by the news.

"'A doctor for treatin' his arthritis'! Tha's all tosh, of course!" said Hilda. "If you ask me, that man's a detective, and he came up 'ere, hopin' to get somethin' on the old feller. Hidin' for somethin' he did in his youth, d'you think?"

"Oh, you mustn't go over the top, Hilda. I always thought Ivor was just a poor old dear."

"Ha! But me, I saw that money he had with my own two eyes! Poor old dear, my foot!"

"That could be some sort of inheritance, don't you think? Some of these queer old men act quite strangely, you know; I've read Iquite/I a few books... They don't trust banks, these people. I'd say they're quite mad if you ask me."

"Quite mad, yes, Old Ivor's quite touched in the head... that doctor person was so queerly dressed, Eloise! In robes and such... Why, he could well be a doctor from the mental asylum, come to take the old feller away!"

"Ah!"

"I wonder what will happen to the poor little grandson of his if Ivor's taken away..."

"Ye-es, I wonder, too..."


End file.
